Christmas 1987
by syntax6
Summary: Take the events of 1987 (1 kidnapping and beating, 1 shot to the back, 1 attempted rape, 1 one-night stand), and add assorted relatives. Stir and behold the glorious mess.
1. Chapter 1

The morning of Christmas Eve found McCall in her bathroom, carefully applying makeup and pausing every few moments to assess her handiwork. The slow, deliberate process had nothing to do with the holiday; it had become her usual custom over the past few weeks. At first she laid it on thick to hide the bruises, but the fingerprints left by Lloyd Fredericks had faded now, to the point where no one else could see. Now she used the concealer to camouflage the nights spent not sleeping on her couch, watching the TV with one eye and her front door with the other, as the flickering light from the commercials danced in the metal of her gun. She paid special attention to her appearance, getting the mascara applied just right, fussing with her hair until it singed beneath the iron, making sure that her outside looked as normal as possible so that no one would notice the chaos churning on the inside

She'd put on a cheery red sweater for the occasion and dug out a holly wreath Christmas pin given to her by Steve many years before. Normally, it made her smile to wear it, but this year, she was going through the holidays with the barest of motions. She had no decorations in the house. She'd shopped haphazardly for presents for her family, wrapping the gifts in a daze such that she couldn't even remember what was in each package. In her bedroom just beyond the door, Christmas carols blazed away, singing about cheer and joy and the glory of God, but she felt none of it penetrate the invisible shell she'd put up around her. The music simply drowned out the noise inside her head.

She forced a determined smile at the mirror, trying to look normal. She had to be careful these next few days. Her family had no idea what had happened to her and she wanted to keep it that way. This was why she had struck a deal with Hunter, the one that had him arriving in the next few minutes to pick her up: they would spend Christmas Eve with his family in exchange for Christmas Day with hers. They had never joined their holiday celebrations before, so there was bound to be talk, which was in fact what she was counting on. Hunter was huge and obvious and a positively fantastic barrier between her and any difficult questions that might come her way. Go ahead and wonder if we're sleeping together, she thought wearily. That one's at least easy to answer.

Her doorbell chimed, and she risked a last look in the mirror. This would have to do. She wiped her palms on her trousers and went downstairs to greet her partner. He looked reassuringly the same as usual, with his jeans, red-plaid shirt, and unfortunate red tie. In his hands, he held two paper cups of coffee. "For the road," he explained as he held them up.

She eyed the coffee gratefully. "Best Christmas present I'm likely to get this year."

Hunter looked amused. "You're a cheap date, partner. I like that about you."

She looked away at the word "date." These jokes were supposed to be normal for them, but ever since their one-night-stand over the summer, she was no longer sure how to play her part in this little pas-de-deux. She opted for continuation of her current strategy: ignore it. "I have a poinsettia plant for your mom," she said as she retrieved it from the nearby end table. "Should I bring anything else?"

"Just your chopping skills. Because I warn you: in my mom's house, everyone cooks."

"Tell her I work a mean microwave," McCall said as they got into his car.

"I don't think Mom even owns a microwave." Hunter handed her one of the coffee cups and started up the engine.

"Oh, well, we're doomed, then."

"You'll be fine," Hunter replied as he navigated onto the road. "Mom likes you."

McCall turned her face to look out the window at the passing scenery, at the tinsel and wreaths and tacky lawn ornaments. The last time she had seen Patricia Hunter was in the early spring, when the woman had cornered her in the cafeteria of Wilshire Memorial while Hunter lay in the ICU upstairs. The beatings and dehydration and loss of blood he'd endured at the hands of Shaunessy's men had left him with kidney failure and a heart arrhythmia. When Rick's mother hadn't gotten any satisfaction from the doctors, she had turned her questions to Dee Dee.

How did this happen?

Where were you?

Why didn't I know sooner that he was missing?

Tell me he's going to be okay.

"I don't know," she said to Hunter now. "From the little I've interacted with her, I think I understand where you get your interrogation technique."

His mouth widened into a grin. "Yeah? Try sneaking in the backdoor two hours past curfew. She'll really show you something then."

When they reached his mother's house—a small ranch-style home with a wreath on the door and a red ribbon bedecking the mailbox—there were already a half-dozen cars lining the side of the road. They were met at the threshold by a crush of humanity in varying shapes and sizes, all of them wanting hugs, and McCall coached herself to keep breathing as she was passed from one relative to the other, with Hunter bending down to mutter names in her ear that she would never remember. "Aunt Donna, Uncle Jack…that's their daughter, Cecilia. My cousin Marianna and her husband, Joe. Uncle Wen. That's Benjamin, but around here, he's always Benny."

"Did you say Uncle When?" she muttered back to him.

"W-e-n. His real name's Clarence, but Jackie, his brother, couldn't pronounce it when they were kids. Wen is what stuck." He tugged her from the masses. "Come on, I want you to meet Nona."

They found her in the living room, a tiny woman sitting in an enormous wing-back chair with her knitting on her lap, wearing a black lace dress and orthopedic shoes. Hunter raised his voice to near shouting level. "Nona, Merry Christmas!"

Her kewpie doll face lit up at the sight of him. "Ricky! Merry Christmas." She set aside her knitting and reached both hands for his face, which she kissed soundly on both cheeks.

McCall smiled. This was why she had come, to see the people and places that had made him. Hunter reached back and tugged her forward. "Nona, I want you to meet Dee Dee McCall. She's my partner."

Nona's mouth fell open in delight. "You finally got married! Ricky, how wonderful." She stretched out her liver-spotted hands and grabbed hold of McCall.

"No, Nona," Hunter said even more loudly. "She's my partner."

"I heard you," the old woman snapped back. "I know the modern phraseology. I'm hip to the lingo. It's 'partners' now, right? Women's lib and all that?"

"No, she's my police partner. We work together."

Nona looked McCall up and down, and McCall gave her an apologetic shrug. "It's true."

"I thought Duckworth was your work partner," Nona said, still not letting go of McCall's hands.

"Duckworth was three partners ago," Hunter told her. He looked at McCall. "Sorry, Nona tends to be a little forgetful these days."

The woman dropped McCall's hands with a disgusted sigh. "I didn't forget you're forty years old. By the time I was forty, I had a grandbaby on the way." She reached over and gave him a little shove for emphasis. "You. Since that time? No more babies."

"I think Ma needs some help in the kitchen," Hunter said.

Nona snorted. "The General's in there giving her orders. Best get your marching papers or get out of her way."

"Come on," Hunter said to McCall. "Let's see if we can find her."

But Nona was quite finished yet. She grasped McCall's hand again as McCall turned to go. "I don't see a ring on this finger, either. You're not married?"

"Nona!" Hunter put his hands on his hips in protest.

"No, ma'am," McCall replied mildly. "I'm not married."

The woman nodded in Hunter's direction. "There's hope for you yet, Ricky."

Hunter yanked McCall away from his grandmother. "Ignore her. She's like a broken record on this topic."

"All I want is to see my grandson be happy," the old woman said with an exaggerated slump of her shoulders. "My one wish. This could be my last Christmas, you know."

"You've been saying that for twenty years now, Nona," Hunter tossed back over his shoulder as they wended their way through the folding chairs toward the kitchen.

"And one day, it will be true!"

In the kitchen, Patricia was wearing a red apron with white script that read, "Buon Natale!" and handing out orders to people as she took a large knife to some helpless herbs. "Benny, can you get the shrimp out from the refrigerator and plate it on that silver platter? No, the other one. Thank you. Miri, dear, the carrots should be chopped as coins, not as sticks. Thank you!"

"Hiya, Mom," Hunter said, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

"My boy, at last," she replied warmly. "Let me get a look at you." She paused to wipe her hands on her apron before turning Hunter front-and-center for a thorough inspection. "You are too thin. You need to eat more."

"I eat plenty," he replied. "Just ask her." He jerked a thumb backwards at McCall.

Patricia poked her head around Hunter, as if noticing McCall for the first time. McCall did her duty as a partner and backed him up. "It's true, he eats—all day long. Carrots, nuts, crackers. The crunching never stops."

These days, it was her who couldn't seem to eat. Everything she was holding in, all the feelings she dared not loose—they took up so much room at her middle that she had no place for food.

"Dee Dee," Patricia said with a smile. "Welcome. I'm so glad you could come today."

"Thank you so much for having me," McCall replied. "What can I do to help?" She cast an uncertain look around the crowded kitchen, where everyone else was busy chopping, mixing or pouring. Pots sat steaming on the stove, bubbling with all sorts of savory aromas. In the oven, some sort of roast was steeping with rosemary and garlic. It was finely controlled chaos, and McCall was frankly terrified to touch any of it.

"Nonsense, you're our guest here, not a servant. Please just relax and enjoy. There's antipasto and cheese and crackers in the dining room. Ricky, sweetheart, get her a glass of wine, won't you?"

Hunter shrugged and did as he was ordered, serving her up a glass of white wine. She took the tiniest sip and gestured back in the direction of the kitchen. "Does my reputation precede me? I can at least help make the salad."

"Take the out if you can get it. Have a seat, relax and take a load off—that is, if you can hear yourself think around here." As if on cue, someone said something that set off a roar of laughter from the kitchen.

McCall did not want to sit and think. In fact, that was about the last thing she wanted to do. Instead, she asked, "Well then, can I see your room?"

"My room?" His eyebrows shot up. "Sure, you can see it. But I think you'll be disappointed."

He led her toward the back of the house, down a hall decorated with old family pictures, past the bathroom, to a small bedroom with one long narrow twin bed and a plain wooden dresser with a crocheted doily on top. The cream-colored walls were bare except for one picture of the Pacific ocean at sunset. Hunter spread out his arms. "Ta-da."

McCall picked up a tiny silver frame sitting on the dresser and studied the black-and-white photo of a young woman within it. "Your mom cleared out the place after you left, huh?"

He looked around with minimal interest. "Nope. This was pretty much it." Off her look, he shrugged. "I didn't grow up here, not really. We moved here after my dad died when I was fourteen. I knew it was never going to be home."

She tried to imagine teenage Hunter lying on the bed, watching out the lone window and dreaming of…what? Someplace else, probably. He had moved four times in the four years she had known him.

He gave her a sudden grin and sat on the bed, bouncing it up and down. "If you want, I could check under the mattress to see if there's a 1964 Playboy in there."

She held up her hands. "Pass, thank you."

He stretched out on top of the blanket and put his hands behind his head, contemplating the ceiling. "I was wrong, though," he said. When she didn't comment, he continued. "After I left the service, after the war stopped, I came back here some nights. I'd let her feed me dinner and we'd watch one of her shows on TV, and then I'd come back in here to sleep. Some nights…some nights it was the only place I could sleep."

He looked over at her, and she quickly ducked her head. She could feel his eyes on her for a long time, and it made her heart start racing. He had asked how she was doing a few times after it happened, and she always brushed him off: _I'm fine_. If he decided to probe any deeper, she wasn't sure what she would say or even how to say it.

XxX

McCall knew the best way not to do any talking was to let other people do it for you, so she listened to Donna describe some conflict she was having with her neighbor over the height of a shared hedge; Benny go on at length about his choice of Movie of the Year (Lethal Weapon)— "Gibson will get an Oscar for this, you wait and see"—and Cecila, who was hugely pregnant, bemoan the fact that her stomach had actually been compressed by a 9-pound baby and thus she was ravenous all the time but could only eat four bites in one sitting.

Eventually the constant stream of new faces and chatter got too much for her, and she sought out the quiet corner next to Hunter's grandmother. "Yes, please sit," the woman said, patting the chair next to her. "You get old, you move less, and soon you blend right in with the furniture."

"That's lovely, what you're making," McCall replied as she indicated the beautiful magenta and black pattern of yarn across the other woman's lap.

"You like it? It's a sweater for Patricia for Christmas." She paused to lean over toward McCall. "Some people are last-minute shoppers. I am a last-minute knitter." She smiled and her whole face wrinkled up, hiding her twinkling eyes. "I'm just not as fast as I used to be."

"I'm sure she'll love it."

Nona snorted. "She'll tolerate it like she tolerates everything else about me." She glanced over at McCall as her hands took up knitting again. "You work with Ricky?"

"Yes, for years now." Automatically, McCall looked around for Hunter, but she did not see him.

"Ricky's a good boy. Always has been. Never an ounce of trouble growing up—not like mine."

"Patricia?" McCall could just glimpse her through the crowd, with her frosted blonde hair perfectly in place even as she whirled around the kitchen like a maestro conducting a symphony.

"Oh, sweet Mary, yes. Don't let her fool you now. That girl was a pure hellion, right from birth. She climbed the walls when she was two, climbed a giant oak tree when she was eight—when she fell clear out of it and broke her arm in two places. 'Bout stopped my heart at the time. Then at sixteen, she climbed out her bedroom window and met up with all the wrong people. Next thing I knew, she was marrying one." She shook her head. "The more I told her no, the more she wanted it."

"Now that is a trait I recognize," McCall said dryly, and Nona chuckled as her needled clicked together.

"Ricky's stubborn like her, I agree with you there." She shook her head. "You try to teach your kids the best you know how, but they learn more by what you don't say. My girl, she lost her father young, just like Ricky did. Guiseppe was a good man, a good father, but he was killed in an accident when Patricia was just seven years old. Barely out of babyhood. I think she wanted a man to pay attention to her so bad that she took the first one who came along. Only it was bad attention, the worst kind. Ricky, he saw his parents fighting all the time, and now he wants no part of that."

Patricia stuck her head out of the kitchen. "Mama, what are you going on about over there?"

"Nothing, patatina," her mother called back sweetly. "We're just talking."

"Patatina?" McCall murmured as Patricia eyed them with suspicion.

"It means little potato," Nona answered, her smile still in place. "She hates it."

"Ma, why don't you come help me shell the peas?" Patricia called. "Give Dee Dee a break from the family lore."

"I've got arthritis in my hands," the old woman groused. "You want me to fix the peas?"

"You can knit, you can shell peas," Patricia said, and disappeared into the kitchen again.

"I'll go," McCall said. "You should keep working."

"Nonsense," Nona replied as she struggled to her feet. "I need to use the facilities anyway. But don't worry, I'll be back very soon. Don't go 'way."

McCall waited in her seat, wondering if she should search out Hunter, and a few minutes later, she heard Patricia in the kitchen again. "Ma—Mom! What are you doing? You don't snap them in half like that!"

There was some good natured reply from Nona that McCall could not make out, but the next thing she knew, the old woman was shuffling back into the living room again. She backed up to her chair and settled down with a heavy plop. "Turns out that I don't quite remember how to shell peas," she said, sounding not at all regretful. She took up her knitting needles and smoothed the sweater back over her lap. "At my age, you have to decide which memories you want to keep and which you want to let go." She glanced over and winked at McCall. "Now…where were we?"

XxX

Patricia ran out of heavy cream, so Hunter was dispatched to the grocery to find some more. McCall used the intermission to study the family pictures in the hallway. She smiled when she reached what had to be Hunter's high school graduation portrait. He was a lot blonder back then, and baby-faced, although quite serious for a boy who had not yet been to war. There was no sign of the dimples that McCall had come to know and love.

"Handsome, yes?" Patricia asked as she materialized at McCall's side.

He wasn't on the premises, so it was safe to answer. "Yes, definitely," McCall replied.

Patricia looked over the array of photos and adjusted the one closest to her. "He told me that he showed you his bedroom. It's so spartan in there, there's not much to see, and that's probably my fault. Ricky, he was good at sports when he was a young boy. He was so big and strong—and fast, too. But graceful, you know what I mean?"

"I do."

Patricia smiled a little, seeming wistful. "Of course you do. You know better than me now, hmm?" She touched McCall's arm and squeezed her gently. "Ricky should have had a bedroom full of trophies. Instead he had to work. We both did. There just wasn't enough money otherwise once his dad was gone."

"He seems to have come through it just fine," McCall said. "I don't think he needed trophies."

"No," Patricia allowed. "But as his mother, I would have liked to see him get them. You want your children to have everything—everything good." She forced a smile again. "That's why I'm so happy you came today."

"Yes?" McCall was tentative. "I wasn't sure."

"Why not?" Patricia looked perplexed.

"Well, it's just with what happened earlier this year, when Hunter was hurt…" She broke off and looked at the floor. "What you said about how I should have been there. I mean, you're right—I wish I had been, and—"

"What?" Patricia raised a hand to her mouth, looking horrified. "I said what? Please forgive me if I said anything to hurt or offend you. When I got the call from the hospital, I was so scared. I don't really remember what I said."

"Oh," McCall said with relief. "Don't worry. It was a scary time. Forget I even said anything then."

"No," Patricia said, moving closer, searching McCall's face intently. "I'm sorry for what I said to you that day, for anything that made you think I blame you for what happened to Rick. He's been very clear with me: you're the one who saved him."

McCall felt herself flush. "I wouldn't go that far," she mumbled.

"I don't even remember most of what I said. The petrified rantings of a terrified old woman, I suppose. But I remember what you said to me—do you?"

McCall raised her head to meet Patricia's gaze.

"I asked you to tell me he would be all right. I asked the doctors the same thing, and they wouldn't answer. Wait and see. The next twenty-four hours will be crucial. We don't know anything yet. But then I asked you the same thing: tell me he will be okay. And you said yes. Yes, he would be fine." She smiled, her eyes wet. "And he was."

McCall didn't recall saying it, but she remembered doing everything in her power to will it into happening. She simply wasn't willing to accept any other outcome. "Oh," she said, sniffing back her own emotion. "Well, I wish I could claim some credit, but he got better all on his own."

"Not on his own," Patricia corrected her. "I was there. And so were you. These people in the house are his family by birth, by marriage…you're the one he picked for himself."

"I'm not…we're not, uh…" She broke off helplessly in the face of this particular conversation.

"I'm not fishing for anything, and I'm not pushing. My mother is the one who's concerned about Ricky getting married. I don't care what he does with his life as long as he's not alone. These people weren't at the hospital last spring. You were. That's good enough for me."

McCall relaxed a bit for the first time that day. "Well, if I'm family, I think I really ought to be helping with the dinner, don't you think?"

"Absolutely." Patricia linked her arm through McCall's, gave her another squeeze, and proved yet again that her son liked to tell tales out of school. "You can set the table."

XxX

The table was actually three tables patched together with coordinating red and green table cloths. Mismatched chairs and china plates and candlesticks rounded out the scene as McCall carefully laid out silverware at each place setting. Patricia showed her where to get the antique wine glasses, the ones with the gold trim, and McCall was just putting the last two out when Hunter touched her shoulder from behind her. "Need any help?"

She jerked away so hard that she lost control of one of the glasses, which hit the edge of the table on the way down and shattered into five for six pieces. The noise was shocking, and everyone halted to turn and stare. McCall froze for a second, her heart pounding as her brain tried to make sense of what just happened. Glass. Not bullets. She let out a shaky breath and bent to pick up the mess. "I'm so sorry," she murmured as Hunter knelt with her. She hoped he didn't notice her hands were trembling.

"Don't worry about it."

"Your mom's special glasses. I feel awful about this."

"My grandmother probably bought them at a yard sale," he said as he plucked the last of the glass from the carpet.

"I'm sorry," she said again, and Hunter reached out to touch her cheek with his free hand.

"It was an accident," he said. He seemed about to say something more, but Patricia swept in with a mini vacuum and no interest in McCall's apologies.

"They're nothing, just glasses. We can always buy more. Let's just get the food on the table and enjoy a nice dinner."

Everyone sat for dinner. There was grace, followed general merriment and much eating. Dish after dish passed in front of her plate, a dizzying array of risotto, roast beef, potatoes, asparagus, paella, as well as the classic spaghetti and meatballs. McCall helped herself to a few things but largely picked at the food. The family laughed and argued and told stories from Christmases long, long ago, while McCall perseverated on the incident with the broken glass. Stupid, she told herself as the crashing sound replayed in her head. How could you be that stupid?

She had so many noises inside her now, the ones that wouldn't go away: the wooden banister splintering as she fell down the stairs with Fredericks; the crack of her ribs breaking when he landed on top of her; his breathing, loud and harsh in her ears; the gunshot that split her household, marking it forever a before and an after. She was trying, really trying, to find the quiet again, but it just kept slipping through her grasp.

"Hey," Hunter said, jolting her from her thoughts, "is that really all you're going to eat?"

He nodded down at her meager plate. She pushed some potatoes around with her fork and shrugged. "It's all delicious, really it is. I must have filled up on the hors d'oeuvres earlier."

"Hmm." Hunter did not look like he believed her. "As long as you saved room for dessert. Mom makes a killer cheesecake."

McCall tried to smile. "Sounds delicious."

"After dessert, there's some presents and then the family goes to midnight mass," Hunter said. "But you and I don't have to stay for that. I can take you home."

"I don't want to mess up your traditions," she protested. She had already done enough.

Hunter's brow furrowed. "Don't you want to be on the road early tomorrow? I thought you'd want to get to bed."

Bed. She thought with longing to that soft, comfy place she had abandoned weeks ago. She was so tired, but she knew even if she crawled inside and pulled the covers over her head, there would be no real rest for her. Midnight mass was a better alternative than her couch and gun. "I'd like to go," she said, "if it's okay with you. I mean, I'm not Catholic…"

He grinned. "Neither is half the congregation, at least if you want to get technical about it. I haven't set foot in the place since last year, and you can bet I'm not the only one."

She quirked an eyebrow at him, relieved at the change of subject. "God only takes attendance on the high holidays?"

"Let's hope so. Otherwise it could be a toasty afterlife."

XxX

The Church was beautiful, with Spanish-style architecture, a tile floor and round windows. There were wreaths on the walls and candles at the altar. Organ music played softly as people shuffled in to take their seats. Hunter was right: the place was packed, even at midnight, and McCall tried to take up as small a space as possible on the wooden bench, here in this place she knew she did not belong.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

She had lured a man to his death and then changed her mind. She still wasn't sure which part of that equation disturbed her more, which one was the greater sin, and so forgiveness seemed impossible.

McCall saw immediately that coming to church had been a mistake. It was too quiet here, with the priest droning on, and there were so many people. She was both alone with her thoughts and trapped in a room with two hundred others. Panic started rising in her, but she swallowed it back down. Beside her, Hunter seemed unaware of her distress. He fidgeted through the introductory rites, fiddling with the end of his tie during the reading of the Christmas story. The music, normally her favorite part, sounded distant and tinny—more of a buzzing than a melody.

She forced herself to listen to the homily, to concentrate on the words and not feel the pounding of her heart. Maybe there would be wisdom here. Something she could hold onto.

The Priest talked about bringing gifts to the baby Jesus, and how the wise men brought expensive luxuries, while the peasants struggled to find anything to offer. They had bits of food and broken clay pots. Some of the people were broken, too, just like the pots—sick or scared or having sinned in some way that left them less than whole. They didn't feel worthy of bringing a gift. It didn't even matter if you glued the pots together again because the cracks would always show. Who could offer something like that to the son of God?

Her throat started seizing up around the broken pots. Sharp and broken. Yes, this was how she felt inside. Her ribs had mostly healed, although they hurt each night when she tried to lie down, just another reminder that she would get no peace. The cracks would always show.

Her palms became cold and clammy. She felt lightheaded and breathless, like her chest was wrapped too tight. "Excuse me," she muttered and pushed past Hunter. She fled the church and hurried out into the frosty night air.

The shock of it, the slap of cold on her face, stopped her short on the walkway. She gulped in several breaths. Los Angeles could feel plenty chilly and dark at times, but she'd never been lost like this. She walked in a circle, rubbing her head, trying to figure out what to do next. She wasn't going to be able catch a cab at midnight on Christmas Eve.

She heard footsteps behind her and whirled around to see Hunter coming down the path. He looked concerned, not angry. "Are you all right?" he asked when he reached her.

She hugged herself for warmth because her coat was back inside the church. "Yeah. I just needed some fresh air. Got a little too warm in there, you know?"

Hunter frowned and looked away. He chewed his lip for a moment and then shook his head as if to clear it. When he spoke, his words came out on little puffs of white air. "I think…I think maybe you should see someone. A doctor. Maybe Anita. Someone you can talk to about what's going on with you."

Her throat closed off again. "Hunter. I just got a little overheated. It's no big deal."

"You could talk to me, of course," he continued as if she hadn't spoken. "But you haven't done that, and I have to believe there's a reason why. So I think you should find someone else, someone who can help you."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine!" She flinched as he shouted at her, and he immediately softened his posture. "You don't eat, you don't sleep. You don't tell me the truth when I ask what's going on. I don't blame you for any of that, but I can't sit here and pretend it isn't happening. I would have suggested this a long time ago except—" He caught himself, as if he'd said too much.

"Except what?"

His shoulders sagged. "I'm afraid they would tell you enough is enough. That you should walk away." A heavy silence settled between them. "Maybe you should," he said at last. "Hang it up. Find a less dangerous life somewhere else. Go…be happy."

This is it, she thought. This is what he's wanted to tell you all along. "You think I'm broken too, don't you? Like the pots."

"What?"

"I'm crazy. That's what you're saying, right? I should quit and you can get a nice normal partner."

He was looking at her like she was crazy. "I never said that."

"You tried to replace me once this year already. Maybe Megan's already waiting in the wings, is that it? I'm damaged goods now so you can look for an upgrade."

"Okay," Hunter said. "I'm going to need some sort of updated agenda for this conversation, because you have totally lost me. Who is Megan?"

It was her turn to look surprised. "Megan Malone. Your new best friend, remember? A few months ago you were so tight with her, you were practically wearing the same clothes. I couldn't even get you to look me in the eyes anymore, let alone have a conversation."

Hunter spread his arms out. "There's no Megan here. I don't have her stashed someplace, either. 'In case of emergency, break glass and release new partner.' I have a partner. That's you. You're the one I fought to keep, remember?"

There was regret in his eyes, and she saw it. "And now you're sorry," she said softly, surprised she could still hurt. She thought she had shut out everything.

He shook his head slowly. "Not sorry. Worried. I want to help you, but I no longer know how."

If Hunter couldn't help her, she really was too far gone. The thought made tears burn in her eyes, and for once, she didn't fight them back down. "It's no use anyway," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Didn't you hear him in there? The broken pots aren't good enough, and they don't ever go back together the same way—the cracks are forever."

Hunter considered a moment. When he answered, his tone was tender. "You ran out too soon," he told her. "You didn't hear the end of the story. Those broken pots? And the people? They're the best ones."

"Yeah, right."

"It's true. God loves them the most because they're the ones he can help."

She blinked at him, the tears cold on her lashes. "I don't know."

He nodded and took her hand. "Come on back inside," he said, tugging on her. "God apparently loves a challenge. And coincidentally, so do I."

She allowed him to coax her back inside the church; after all, her coat was still in the building. She shivered with residual cold as she retook her seat next to Hunter's grandmother. Wordlessly, Hunter slipped an arm around her and rubbed her shoulders to warm her up. Nona was frowning and shaking her head as the candles were distributed for the final hymn and the blessing.

"It always struck me as strange anyways," she said to McCall. "Who the hell brings gold and incense for a newborn baby? Those men weren't wise. They were dunderheads."

McCall accepted a candle from the basket and Hunter did the same. The overhead lights went out, cloaking the church in darkness, except for the Christ candle at the altar. A few moments later, the Priest took the flame from the Christ candle and the congregation began to pass it on, each person to the other, until a single flame had turned the entire church back into the light.


	2. Chapter 2

McCall awoke when the sunlight filtered in through her living room blinds and caught her across the face. She held a hand in front of her eyes, forcing them open even though they still felt cracked and dry with fatigue. Hunter had dropped her off near two a.m., and it was just past seven now. She had slept four hours at the most, and he was due to show up shortly so they could go do Round Two of Christmas, this time at her parents' home.

Although this schedule didn't leave her much time to complete her new battle-ready morning routine, she was unable to muster any sense of urgency. She lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, and thought about what Hunter had said to her the previous evening. _I think you should see someone. A doctor._

Because he thought she was sick, or more aptly, crazy. This was the message. All the work she had put in, all the effort to present a stiff upper lip and do her job like always, never offering any hint of the churning terror she hid behind her eyes, it had fooled Hunter not one iota. He'd made it sound so easy—just call up some shrink and get her head screwed on right again. She could only imagine what Anita might say if she'd explained what happened. What was the definition of insanity again? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?

She pushed herself slowly off the couch, grimacing as her ribs shifted, but at least now she was able to breathe through the quick burst of pain. She trudged up the stairs, careful not to touch the railing. It had been repaired, and no one else would even know it had been broken. On the outside, everything was perfect again. No one knew the details, the pieces of the story she had never said aloud. How heavy he was when he fell on top of her. The stink of his breath through the stocking mask. How she had been dizzy, unable to breathe, her strength slipping away as she realized she was going to lose the fight. Maybe he'll kill me this time, she had thought, and the thought was a comfort, because at least then it would be over. She wouldn't have to survive on the other side.

But then the sirens wailed and he ran off, leaving her stunned and broken on her living room floor. Reprieve. It didn't happen. It didn't have to be. Almost only counted in horseshoes and hand grenades, right?

So she wasn't going to sell her house and move this time. She wasn't going to take a leave of absence and sit around sobbing in her bathrobe. And she sure as hell wasn't going to call up a doctor and have him or her say it didn't matter, that almost raped was just as bad, or near enough to count. She simply had to put one foot in front of the other until she had enough distance between herself and that awful night so that it could no longer touch her. The past, she was determined, would be left where it belonged…assuming Hunter was willing to cooperate with her on this.

She showered and changed without really looking in the mirror, and put on a black pin-striped shirt paired with a cheery red cardigan. She had told Hunter that dress was casual, but he showed up in a gray suit and subdued black-and-silver tie. He wasn't holding coffee this time, although he looked like he could have used some. "Two a.m. is later than it used to be," he informed her as he smothered a yawn against his forearm.

"You don't have to come," she told him as she gathered up the two sacks of presents for her family. "It's really okay."

She'd invited him because she'd thought he was on her side. He was supposed to help her hide what happened, not try to drag it out into the light for everyone to see.

"Nope. Fair is fair," he replied as he relieved her of one bag. "You got to meet all my crazy relatives, so now I get to meet yours."

She shivered and hunched deeper into her coat as they walked to the car. Winter never truly settled on Los Angeles, but this was the coldest Christmas in years. The current temperature was only in the 40s, and the filtered sun felt very far away.

"You've met my family," she told him as they got into his car. She knew even as she said it that a few tense handshakes in the ICU didn't really count as a proper introduction.

"Yeah, but this way I get to observe you in your natural habitat," he said, squinting over at her. "See where you came from."

She was hoping to be reminded of this herself, so she said nothing in reply. It was a quiet drive, and she spoke up again when they neared her parents' house, guiding him with directions through the hills until they arrived at the spot she had once called home. Hunter made a show of leaning over her and peering out the window at the large two-story Mediterranean-style home. At least it was winter, so the fountain was turned off.

"What does your father do again?" he asked her.

"He's retired," she said, pushing him back toward his side.

"From the oil industry? Loan sharking? Running a small island nation in the Pacific?"

"Banking," she told him, with a pointed look. "And the house is not that big."

"It has columns," he replied as they walked up the path from the circular driveway.

"They're structural." She was already feeling defensive and they weren't even in the doorway yet.

The heavy front door swung open before she could knock, and her older brother Jonathan stood on the other side, with each of his young sons pressed against his legs. "It's about time," he groused, although he was smiling. "You couldn't have run the siren?"

"The siren!" Her nephew Mark's face lit up. "Can we run it? Can we?"

"Maybe later," McCall told him as she ruffled his head. "We don't want Santa to have to take the presents back because we were disturbing the peace." She turned to glance at Hunter. "John, you remember my partner, Rick Hunter."

"Of course. Merry Christmas." The men exchanged handshakes while her nephews craned their heads up to get a better look at Hunter.

"These are my nephews," McCall explained. "Mark is…eight?"

He nodded, and she pressed on, emboldened now.

"Evan is four."

"Five and a quarter!" he shouted in protest.

McCall spread her hands in apology, but Hunter crouched down to Evan's level. "The quarter makes all the difference," he agreed solemnly as he pulled a shiny one out from behind Evan's ear. The boy laughed in delight when Hunter handed him the coin.

"Watch out—it probably has two heads," McCall muttered.

John elbowed her lightly on the arm. "I hope you have more casual attire in one of those bags because the game is on for this afternoon, and your team is going down this year." He flexed his bicep. "I've been working out, see?"

"I get to play on Daddy's team," Mark declared proudly.

"Me, too!" Evan jumped up and down, and Mark shoved him.

"Nah, you're still a shrimp."

McCall touched the top of Evan's black curls. "You can watch with me," she told him. "I'm sitting this one out." The annual family backyard football game was competitive enough that people ended up on the ground, and her ribs had barely been stitched back together.

"What?" John frowned. "What are you talking about, sitting this one out?"

She cleared her throat. "I pulled a rib muscle at the gym a few weeks ago," she said. "Just overdid it, I guess." She felt Hunter's eyes on her as she said the lie, but she knew he would never give her away. This was her family, her play; he would back her up.

The rest of her relatives swept into the entryway at that point: her mother and her father, who hugged and kissed her and welcomed Hunter with their usual manners—friendly, if not entirely warm; her Uncle George and Aunt Elizabeth; their grown sons Robert and Kenny, and daughter, Ellen. Ellen had been Dee Dee's playmate at these family functions growing up, given their closeness in age. Then as adults the two had both married a man named Steve within a year of one another. It had been funny and charming, a great source of family amusement at first, and then it suddenly became awful the first Christmas there was only one Steve. Ellen and her husband had practically hidden from her back then, shrinking in their seats, leaving rooms as soon as she'd entered just so she wouldn't have to see them and how happy they still were.

It was funny, McCall thought as she hugged them now and admired their new baby daughter. She could remember how terrible that year had seemed but that particular pain had long evaporated.

Her mother relieved her of the bag of presents as they walked toward the family room. As usual, her parents had a ten-foot tree decked out with white lights and red bows. McCall stopped to check out a few of the more familiar ornaments nestled among the greenery: a popsicle and cotton-ball Santa Claus made by John several decades ago; a lead crystal Christmas tree handed down from her great-grandmother; and a red clay elf she had made in nursery school. It was old and delicate now, but her tiny fingerprints were still visible along the edges.

"Are you staying the night?" her mother asked her as she finished adding McCall's presents to the stack beneath the tree.

"I haven't decided. Maybe."

"I see." Her mother paused and fussed with one of the branches. "And Rick?" she asked with forced casualness. "Is he staying tonight?"

McCall shot her mother a look. "We're not sleeping together."

Her mother was annoyed to be called out snooping. "That isn't what I asked."

"Oh, yes it was."

Her mother made a sniffing sound as she dropped the branch. "Well, I hope you're ready to play with your brother, at least. He's been so looking forward to it—he brought his violin all the way from New York."

McCall suppressed a groan. She and Jonathan had been playing Christmas music for the family since they were children, a tradition she had alternately loved and loathed through the years. "Oh, Mom, I don't know. Maybe we can just skip it this time?" She hadn't touched her piano in months now, hadn't felt the least bit like music-making. She had no songs to sing.

"Dee Dee, it's Christmas! Your brother came all this way. You wouldn't want to disappoint everyone."

No, McCall thought as her mother left her alone with the tree. I never do.

XxX

After a round of presents and some cajoling by Mark and Evan, Hunter agreed to take them out to the car and show them the cherry light and the radio—no siren. McCall tagged along. "This is so cool!" Mark exclaimed from behind the driver's seat. "Do you chase bad guys in this?"

"All over town," Hunter said, looking down on him with an amused smile.

Mark scooped up the radio. "Dispatch, this is car 54," he said. "We're in hot pursuit of the suspect. Send back-up!"

Hunter looked at McCall. "Kid's a natural."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't tell my brother. He expects them to follow him into the scintillating world of finance."

Evan, the little one, clambered up so he sat backwards in the passenger seat. "Do you have a gun, too?" he asked Hunter through the open window.

"Sure. It's locked up right in there." He indicated the glove box, and Evan's eyes went wide.

"Can we see it?"

"Yeah, can we?" For once, Mark matched his little brother's enthusiasm.

"I don't know." Hunter looked uncertain. He glanced at McCall. "What does your Aunt Dee Dee say?"

Mark's face fell as he gave a deep sigh. "Aunt Dee Dee says you should only take out a gun if you absolutely need it."

McCall's chest tightened at the words, and she shoved her hands deep in her coat pockets. The last time she'd drawn her weapon was in her own living room. The echo of the gunshot still woke her every time she dared to sleep.

Hunter worried his lower lip back and forth for a minute before replying. "Your Aunt Dee Dee is very wise. You should listen to her."

Then the boys turned their big eyes and innocent faces to her, and she had to look away.

Back inside the house, more relatives poured in to enjoy the open space and packed buffet table. McCall made sure to take a big plateful of food in case Hunter happened to be watching, but he seemed deep in conversation with her cousin Dave about something she could not hear from twenty feet away. Cars, maybe. Or local politics.

McCall had some seriously local politics of her own to contend with when her mother nudged yet another stack of cookies at her. "You have to try the macaroons," she said. "Rachel made them."

McCall slid her gaze to her brother's wife, a willowy brunette who was at that moment trying to keep Evan and Mark from devouring the black forest cake. "I'm sure they're delicious," she said.

"Oh, they are amazing, so light and flavorful at the same time—Rachel is a whiz in the kitchen. Maybe if you ask her, she'll give you the recipe."

Dee Dee shook her head slightly in exasperation. Rachel was a sweet, agreeable sort of woman and the kind of daughter McCall's mother probably would have picked for herself, if she had been given the option. Rachel baked cakes that didn't stick to the pan and threw dinner parties to charm Jonathan's clients and colleagues. She'd produced two delightful grandchildren and never had a cross word for anyone, near as McCall could tell. She just wished she didn't find the woman so damn boring. Really, she liked Rachel just fine, as far as it went. They simply had nothing in common.

"Mom, what on earth would I do with a macaroon recipe?"

Her mother snatched one up and took a bite, closing her eyes in bliss as the taste hit her tongue. "Mmm. Well, you could make some delicious cookies, for one thing. Your partner would probably enjoy that, wouldn't he? A man that size must eat like a horse."

McCall grit her teeth. "We work together, Mom. I don't fix his meals or iron his shirts."

Her mother finished the cookie and dusted off her hands. "More's the pity. The one he has on looks like it could use a bit of starch."

McCall held back a retort. Instead, she picked up a macaroon and dropped it on her plate while her mother looked on. "There," she said. "Are you happy now?"

Her mother regarded with an inscrutable expression for a moment, and then she squeezed McCall's hand. "The question is, my darling, are you? Please excuse me, I haven't yet said hello to Aunt Mary."

McCall was mute as she watched her mother disappear into the crowd. What little appetite she'd had vanished entirely, and she set the plate aside. Jonathan materialized next to her, and he looked down at her food. "Rachel made the macaroons," he told her.

"Legend has it," McCall grumbled back.

He didn't seem to notice because he was still looking at her plate. "Are you going to eat that?"

She sighed unhappily. "No, I don't suppose I am."

Jonathan devoured the cookie whole. "Mom said we're supposed to play for everyone," he said with his mouth still full.

"Yeah, she mentioned that to me too." She gave him a sideways look. "She said you've been looking forward to it."

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh yeah? She told me the same thing about you."

At this, McCall had to grin. "I think we've been had."

"Seems so." He considered and then shrugged. "I guess we know who has REALLY been looking forward to it. It can't hurt to run through some old chestnuts for her, I suppose. Beats anything I picked up at the store."

"Yeah, okay," McCall agreed reluctantly. "I warn you, I'm pretty rusty."

"Ha, I've got you beat," Jonathan replied as they threaded their way through the crowd to the music room. "I haven't played since last Christmas."

"Really?" She drew up short in the hallway and turned to face him. "That's a long time for you. What happened to your quartet buddies?"

A shadow passed over Jonathan's face, and he gestured at the room behind her. "Let's go inside, hmm?"

The music room was large and airy, with big bay windows, a beige tile floor, and a beautiful grand piano. Her mother had replaced the framed sheet music that usually hung on the walls with decorative holly wreaths, and red and white Christmas pillows graced the bench seating along the rear wall. Jonathan turned his back to McCall and busied himself with getting out his violin. "Well?" she asked, not making any move to take her seat at the piano. "What gives?"

He turned around with the bow in his hand. "It's been a bit of a tough year," he conceded, his eyes downcast. "Rachel was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in June."

"What? Why didn't you tell me?"

His gaze flicked over her. "Well, you may remember you had just got yourself shot in May," he replied darkly. "We didn't think you needed the drama—really, the family as a whole was rather still in shock."

She flushed but stood her ground. "We would still want to know. We would still want to help. How is she?"

"Better now. It comes and goes, apparently. The disease course is…uncertain. She's taking injections to try to stave off another attack. In the meantime, she's feeling pretty good. But we're looking around at another property that might be better suitable, just in case."

"I'm so sorry," she murmured. She crossed the room and gave him a hug, violin and all. He returned it cautiously.

"Thanks."

"If there is anything I can do…"

"We'll let you know." He set her away from him gently, and looked her over with a probing gaze. "And you? Are you going to stick to that story about a gym injury?"

She opened her mouth and closed it again. "I—what do you mean, a story? I told you what happened."

He snorted. "You were always such a shitty liar. Look at you—you didn't touch your food. You've clearly lost weight. Hunter's been watching you like he expects you to fall over at any moment. What's going on? Mom and Dad said you were recovered from your surgery, that you were back to normal."

"I was. I am."

John's tone was reproachful but also kind. "Sweetie, it doesn't look that way from here."

"I'm fine, really." She stepped backward, putting some necessary distance between them as her heart rate picked up again. "I'll yell if I need any help."

He bopped her lightly on the head with his bow. "Yell soon, hmm? While someone can still hear you."

They located the holiday music, and the family gathered around while she and Jonathan ran through some familiar hymns and Christmas tunes. They were out of sync at times, and McCall heard every single mistake she made, wincing inwardly at each discordant note. But the family was smiling and clapping along as though nothing were amiss. Her mother beamed with pride and joy. Even Rachel, with her younger son on her lap, managed to find the beat.

XxX

She was tired, the late nights catching up to her to the point that she had trouble tracking all the different conversations around her. When she escaped the noise to stand near the Christmas tree, ostensibly to admire the decorations, Hunter sidled up to her, holding a club soda with lime. "So," he said as he took a sip. "When do I get to see your room?"

She smiled a bit. "It's a spectacle, all right. I'll show you if really want to see it."

"It's my fondest Christmas wish," he replied, deadpan, and drained the rest of his drink. "Lead the way."

She retraced the path she knew so well, up the stairs and down the hall to her old bedroom. She flicked on the light and let Hunter inside. "My parents don't really need the space, so it's mostly just sat here, unchanged."

"Wow," he said as he stepped over the threshold. "You're not kidding."

"Weird, right? It's like they expect me to come back—as a teenager from 1973."

The walls were the same pale blue they had always been, and the 1970s bedspread with the giant quilted flowers still graced the double bed she'd slept in for so many years. Hunter dove right in, touching all her things in turn, holding up the costume jewelry from her dresser, peering in at the high school snapshots the lined her mirror, sniffing the ancient tube of lipstick like he was an archeologist bent on excavating her past.

The room was rather like a layered history of who she used to be, with vestiges of herself at different ages, from the stickers she'd foolishly attached to the bedpost as a child to the teenage stylings like the Avengers poster on the wall and the go-go boots sitting in the closet. All the different selves she had tried on in the process of becoming who she was.

"Did you do those?" he asked of the black-and-white sketches of horses that were taped to her wall.

She nodded.

"Not bad," he admitted. Then he pointed at the photos of her friends from a former life. "Who are these people?"

She went to stand next to him so she could look too. "PJ, Dawn, Cindy, and Greg. That's me, obviously." She'd had longer, straighter hair back then. They all did, even the guys. "Michelle, Lisa, and Caroline. Frankie Boucher." She shrugged. "People I was friends with in high school."

Hunter picked up one photo to study it more closely. "You still talk to them?"

She bit her lip. "No. Not really." She fingered the edge of one snapshot, taking in their broad smiles and the way they all wrapped their arms around one another. If you had told her pack back then that there would come a day when they would all be strangers, they wouldn't have ever believed it, so certain they were of their constancy in each other's lives.

People disappear quicker than you think, she thought as she dropped her hand back to her side.

Hunter was still perusing the photographs. "So which one was your boyfriend?"

"Maybe none of them," she countered, and he regarded her with a "yeah, right" look. She smiled. "Go ahead then—guess."

He squinted in and appeared to ponder all the choices. "That one," he said definitively, poking his finger at PJ. She felt herself go pink, because of course he was right. He smirked when he saw her blush. "I knew it."

He sauntered over and opened her closet. The first thing he did was stroke his fingers over the pencil marks that marked her changes in height over the years. Jeez, the place really is like a shrine, she thought with some chagrin. Then he yanked out a purple miniskirt. "You model this for PJ?" he asked, raising one eyebrow at her.

She folded her arms. "He liked it well enough."

Hunter held it out as if lining it up on her body. "You could give me a demo."

"It's no longer 1971," she replied as she took the skirt from his hands and returned it to her closet.

"I think it's a timeless look, really." He went to the window and looked out at the view. "Hey, you can get out onto the roof over here." He glanced back at her. "Did you sneak old PJ in through the window?"

She laughed. "No," she said as she joined him by the glass. "You see those windows on the other side right there? That's my parents room. I wasn't sneaking anybody in my window." She paused. "I had a better spot for that."

Hunter grinned. "Well, now you've got to show me."

XxX

They put on their coats and went back outside, this time to the woods behind her parents' home. "If you go that way, there's a path that leads to the golf course," she explained. "But if you go this way, there's something better." She led him through the trees and out into a rocky clearing that required a bit of navigation around the largest of the boulders. The reward was a private, grassy bluff overlooking the canyons. It was a clear, sunny day with a heck of a view.

Hunter gave a low whistle. "Very nice." He lowered himself to the ground, fancy trousers and all, so she did the same and sat next to him. Hunter picked at the dried grass and cleared his throat. "So what's this nonsense about how I wanted to get rid of you?" he asked eventually.

She shifted away slightly and looked at the ground. "You know. A few months ago, when I got back from Quantico. You had Megan for a partner and you wouldn't even talk to me. I—I kept trying to get you alone so we could talk, but you'd run away if I even got near you. I figured…" She huddled into her coat and took a steadying breath. "I figured you were just done with me. You know, after what happened."

For a long, awful minute, he said nothing. Oh, my God, she thought, it's true.

When he spoke, his voice was strange and scratchy. "Is that when I screwed up?" he asked. "Is that why you won't talk to me now?"

"I am talking to you," she replied with a flash of irritation. This was supposed to be about his silence, not hers.

Hunter shook his head vaguely. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for which part? For sleeping with me? Or for ditching me afterward?" Anger was good. Anger she could use. It was a great defense for keeping the more difficult emotions at bay.

"Both? Either? I didn't plan either part of it, and I handled it badly, I know. I just…didn't know what to say."

She chuffed in disbelief. "I'd think you'd have all the lines down pat by now."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" She regarded him. "I've been with one guy this year," she said, letting him work out the math for himself. "How many women have you taken to bed?"

Hunter's color heightened and he dropped his gaze. "That's not the point. This had nothing to do with Megan or any other woman for that matter. You're my friend. My partner. I didn't want to say the wrong thing and screw everything up, so I said nothing—which, I guess, turned out to be even worse."

She covered her face with her hands, suddenly exhausted by the conversation. All her emotions were overwhelming these days. "Forget it," she said tightly. "Let's just forget it ever happened, okay?"

Hunter was quiet. "I can't," he said finally. "I've tried. Believe me, I've tried. But I can't."

She risked a look at him, and he gave her a rueful shrug.

"It's all I thought about while you were gone."

She shook her head. "I don't believe that. You never said anything."

"Neither did you," he pointed out, and it was her turn to look away.

"You're the one with more practice at these things," she said as she squinted out at the houses and rolling hills below them. "I guess I was waiting to take my cue from you."

Hunter chuckled lightly. "Well, you were totally screwed then. Look, I had no roadmap for this. I kept waiting and counting down the hours until you got back, and then there you were, and I had no idea what the hell I wanted to say."

"So you ran."

"I was confused! I didn't know if you were going to say it was all a big mistake or that you wanted to…to start dating or something."

She blinked at him in surprise. "Which did you want me to say?" she asked finally.

"That was the problem. I didn't know. Both options kind of seemed equally terrifying."

"So now I'm terrifying," she said, but her tone was lighter now. "Thanks, Hunter. Thank you very much."

He blew out a frustrated breath. "Not you. It. This…this thing between us. I had it all planned out, truly. A lot of different plans. I was going to send you flowers, but I didn't know what to put on the card. Then I thought maybe I could pick you up at the airport. I would be standing there, waiting for you, and you'd come through the gates and you'd know by looking at me that—"

She held her breath but he didn't finish his thought. "That what?" she prodded after a minute.

"That I missed you," he finished softly. "That I care about you." He reached over and cupped her cheek. "That I was confused about a lot of things, but not about you. Never you."

Her heart squeezed painfully inside her chest as a choked noise escaped her. Hunter tugged the back of her head until she leaned over and he could wrap her in his arms. She buried her face against him and held on tight. "I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

She shuddered. All the hurt she had clamped down inside, it was still too big. If she let part of it go, it might all come rushing out, drowning her right where she sat. She struggled to free herself, to breathe. "Rick, I—" Hunter shushed her and kissed her head, her cheeks.

She reached up to push him away but somehow ended up holding the side of his face instead. "I'm sorry," he murmured against her skin, the words like a caress.

She stroked his prickly cheek. "Me, too," she said in a small voice.

His mouth found hers, gently, a light kiss of apology. When she held his head in place, he did it again. They murmured nonsense words of reassurance to one another in between the kisses, which just kept happening. Somehow she was on the hard ground, but she wasn't cold, not with Hunter's arms around her and his mouth moving gently over hers. She had forgotten this part, or deliberately suppressed it, how good it felt to lie this close to him with the heat and weight of his body on hers.

To feel one thing risked feeling everything, but maybe this was worth it. Just a few minutes where everything wasn't terrible.

He was rubbing the backs of his fingers lightly over her cheek, as if coaxing her to open, and she obliged with a soft hum of pleasure. They kissed until she was dizzy, the blue sky spinning crazily overhead. Their legs tangled and her toes curled. They kissed with the same reckless abandon they had shown that summer night when everything went to hell.

The jolt of unpleasant memory made her pull her mouth from his with a gasp. Her heart was pounding, and not entirely in a good way. Hunter looked down at her with concern. "You okay?"

"I, uh." She put a hand to her head. It was so hard to think anymore. "I just don't know where we go from here. What happens next."

"Hmm." He brushed her hair back tenderly. "Well, I think your brother said something about a football game, right? And then there's dinner."

"Hunter." She closed her eyes. "You know what I mean."

"Yes." She felt him lean down and kiss her forehead. "And I'm suggesting we take it one step at a time, okay? We don't have to figure out the entire future right this second."

She took a deep breath. "Right. One step at a time," she repeated, trying to convince herself. "I guess I can do that. Except…"

He looked worried again. "Except what?"

She sighed and gestured at her ribs. "I'm going to need you to give me a hand up."

Hunter grinned and sat up so he could help her to her feet. They walked back through the woods, careful not to touch each other, but she was warm and tingly in all the places his hands had been.

Participants had already gathered in the backyard, ready for the game. John came jogging up to her. "Where were you guys? We were starting to get worried."

"We, uh, we went for a walk," McCall told him as she avoided Hunter's gaze.

John narrowed his eyes at her. "A walk, huh? That's all."

"Yeah, you know." She coughed and gestured vaguely behind them. "Just around the neighborhood."

"Uh huh. So why is there grass in your hair?" He reached back and plucked it free.

She felt her face go hot again, but she nodded to where some guys were setting up cones for the end zones. "Better get going," she told John to force a change of subject. "The sun is starting to go down."

"Yeah, yeah. We've chosen teams so we're all set. I'm still sorry I won't get to beat your ass this year."

"That would be a first," she replied drily. "Enjoy the year off while you can."

"Can I take her place?" Hunter asked as he tugged off his tie.

"You?" John asked. "You ever play before?"

McCall thought of Patricia and her regret at how limited Hunter's after school activities had been. "Nah," Hunter said with a shrug. "But how hard can it be?"

"Okay, you're on Steve's team, then. Let's go!"

The game got underway, and McCall dragged her lawn chair into the dying sunlight to sit among the onlookers. She stopped when she reached the spot next to Rachel. "Mind if I join you?" she asked.

Rachel looked surprised but she smiled and shook her head. "Look at poor Evan, running along the sidelines. He wants to play so badly. Anything his brother can do, Evan is desperate to get in on it."

McCall smiled. "I remember how that goes." She had an older brother too. It had been years before she'd been able to beat him at anything. She took a deep breath. "Listen, John told me about your diagnosis. I just wanted to say how sorry I am, and if there is anything at all I can do, please let me know."

Rachel's face froze with her smile in place, but she ducked her head. "Uh, thanks. Thank you. It's not so bad right now. Earlier this year, when my left leg started tingling, and then suddenly I couldn't move my foot at all—that was pretty scary. I couldn't even walk for a couple of weeks."

McCall watched John running the ball into the end zone for a touchdown. He might work a desk job now but he maintained the easy grace of their athletic childhood. She thought back to the dread she had felt when she was lying paralyzed in the ICU. "I, uh, I know how that feels," she said to Rachel. "You're right, it's terrifying."

Rachel nodded. "It's the uncertainty that's the worst part. I could end up being mostly okay for a long time. Or I could be in a wheelchair within a couple of years."

McCall reached over and squeezed her hand. She tried very hard to remember what Hunter had said to her when it was not clear how much, if at all, she would ever recover. "Whatever happens," she said finally. "You won't be alone."

Rachel squeezed her hand in return, but then pulled away with a gasp. "Oh my gosh, look at that!"

Hunter was with the ball at one end of the yard, a bunch of people rushing at him, and McCall turned just in time to see him heave the football high into the air over everyone's head, deep down the field in a perfect spiral. It seemed to hang up there forever, until at last it dropped precisely into the waiting arms of little Evan, who was standing in the opposite end zone.

Both McCall and Rachel leapt to their feet in a spontaneous cheer. John stood on the field, looking perplexed and out of breath. Hunter grinned and winked at her.

Evan's touchdown celebration dance was one for the ages.

XxX

It was late, dark and quiet. Most of the family had left or gone to bed. McCall was trying to work up the energy to tell Hunter that they should be on their way. Instead, she sat at the piano, picking out the notes of a Christmas hymn.

"What's that one?" Hunter appeared beside the piano, startling her into silence. "It's pretty."

"Lo How a Rose E're Blooming," she said. "It's German."

"I don't know it," he replied. "But it sounds nice."

"It's about a rose that shows up in the middle of the harsh winter, and blooms despite the long odds." She waved her hand. "It's supposed to be a metaphor for Jesus's birth or something."

Hunter said nothing, and she bowed her head. She was determined now to survive her winter, too. "I'll call Anita after the new year," she said quietly. She twisted her hands on her lap, still torn up at the very thought.

"Good. I'll go with you, if you want."

She kept her head down. "I think this is something I have to do myself."

He rested his hand on her shoulder gently until she looked up. "No, it's really not." She tried to smile but utterly failed. He jerked his head back toward the family room. "Come on, I have something for you."

She followed him into the family room, which was dark now except for the white lights on the tree. Hunter reached into it and pulled out a small velvet box. "It wasn't something I could give you in front of everyone else," he explained as he handed it to her.

Her stomach seized up. No, surely he couldn't have done something this rash.

Hunter grinned as he sat next to her on the couch. "Oh, if you could see your face right now. Just open it, will ya?"

She lifted the lid and then blinked. What sat inside was not jewelry, but an…evidence container? It had been filled with a hard clear substance—leucite, maybe. In the center was a bullet. A spent, deformed round. "Um…" she said as she held it up.

"The doctor cleaned it up and gave to me after your surgery," he explained, and she almost fumbled the thing when she realized what she was holding. Hunter continued, "He said he kept it because he thought it might be evidence. But the guy who shot you was dead, and so we didn't need to log it or anything. I kept it because I didn't know what else to do with it." He took a breath. "But lately, I've been thinking. It is evidence. It proves you are the strongest person I know. I thought maybe you could use some reminding of that fact, and so I had it put together like that."

"Hunter." Her eyes welled up and she sniffed hard to hold back the tears.

He looked pleased with himself. "I did good?"

She gave a watery laugh and reached to hug him. "Yeah, you did good." He rocked her gently back and forth, the bullet trapped between them. She twisted her fingers in his shirt. "All I got you was some socks."

"I like socks." He rested his chin on the top of her head. "But mostly, I like you."

She curled into him. She hadn't been liking herself very much these days, and his words were a balm to her soul. They were quiet for a long moment, and she started to feel very sleepy. Then he nudged her.

"I've been working on that math," he said, his voice low and gruff somewhere above her head. "You know, the one about how many women I've been with this year."

She gave a tired smile but did not move. "Did you have to take off your shoes and socks to count that high?"

He squeezed her closer. "None," he said in a low voice. "None since you."

She shifted to look up at him, searching to see if this was the truth. "But that's like a half a year," she protested.

"I know! Tell me about it!"

He tugged her back into his arms again and kissed the top of her head. "But I figure, that's the number that matters—yes?"

She turned her face into his shirt and inhaled deeply. "Yes."

It had been so long since she'd slept, she found it impossible to keep her eyes open. Hunter felt her drowsing and rubbed her back. "If you actually want to sleep, I can take you home. Or I understand there's a bed upstairs that literally has your name on it."

She held him back when he tried to move. "Can we just stay here a minute?" She had found it again, this perfect pain-free moment, when she was warm and content, with her eyes shut and only the light of the Christmas tree on the other side. If she could have one moment, she might discover others. Maybe she could even string a few of them together, somewhere down the line, and in doing so, find her way into a future just a sweet as this.

XxX

End.

I get a little twitchy when I am not writing something. So I decided the holidays weren't crazy enough and wrote some fic. I've no patience for my website at the moment, so here it is. Merry Christmas!


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